


Demise scent

by SheenaRogers



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood, Blood Drinking, Drama, F/M, Gen, Horror, Late at Night, Mystery, Nanaba - Freeform, One Shot, Opposites Attract, POV Male Character, POV Mike, POV Third Person, Supernatural Elements, Vampires, mike - Freeform, mikenana - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-23
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-04 04:42:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10983606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheenaRogers/pseuds/SheenaRogers
Summary: Blood was always the first thing he smelt. Till it came the day he found a different scent. It was addictive like a drug and if he could he would let her live, keeping her to himself only to smell it every night.





	Demise scent

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Halloween prompt almost three years ago. The prompt was "blood" so I chose a vampire AU. I'm bringing this back to life because mikenana is strong in the second season.
> 
> Disclaimer: Shingeki no Kyojin belongs to Hajime Isayama, not me.

Blood was always the first thing he smelt.

He could mask that smell, he could focus his hyper-developed sense of smell on other thing. But what for? In the end the thick, metallic scent of the crimson liquid that gave him life was always stronger than any other. Well, to say that it “gave him life” was certainly a macabre metaphor because he had been dead much more time than he could remember. He just borrowed the vital energy from any off-guard human and made it his, as long as it held on his veins. When it dried up he repeated the cycle. And he will do it for eternity.

He could barely remember when or how he died, much less he remembered his previous life. After all, he had been dead for much more time he had been alive. He scarcely spent 30 years in the living’s world before he died. He remembered a war. He remembered the screams, the pain, _the_ _blood_. But they were only blurred, vague details in his mind, a mess of confused and almost forgotten sensations which he was immune to after so many centuries.

He didn’t know well how he reached that condition, either. He was not like those beings in the foolish human legends about deals with demons, acts of vengeance beyond life and death barriers or terrible sins which needed more than one lifetime to be expiated. These were ridiculous superstitions, cheap tales that old women told their children before bed which slowly became in popular belief.

He just knew he awoke one day immersed in darkness. He found there was no war anymore, he even doubted there had ever been one once. Through a lot of pain and suffering he learnt he needed to kill if he wanted to keep walking on the land which was not his anymore because the place he really belonged to was buried under it. For some reason he didn’t understand, he wanted to. He wanted to survive, even if he didn’t know the reason why anymore after all these centuries. He was more than tired of existing, of the humanity. But he remained standing, stealing the nectar of the unfortunate human lives guided by the smell he hated so much but also needed.

Till it came the day he found a different scent.

It was completely dark. Full moon was shining in its entire splendor when it appeared behind the dark blue clouds covering the sky, pushed by the wind. The scene was typical from a horror story, which he found greatly sarcastic. But he needed to feed himself so he prepared to play the role he would have in one of those stories. Surrounded by shadows he approached to a high building, silently, skillfully walking on the roofs. He stopped next to an attic’s window from which he noticed a weak, trembling light despite it being quite late in the morning.

He perceived it before drawing back the curtains and surprised his victim. It was a subtle scent of lavender that filled his nose before the usual smell of blood did, which happened few seconds later. Blood smell was stronger but lavender was still there as if it didn’t want to leave.

He carefully looked through the window led by a curiosity he hadn’t felt for many, many years ago. There was no doubt the room belonged to a woman. The wallpaper has a pale, warm, nice yellow tone. There was a bed covered with white sheets in front of an old wooden desk. Both pieces of furniture were clearly antique, from the past. A thick, Asian-style carpet covered almost the entire floor. She was in the center.

She was sitting on the floor, barefooted; her back leant against the bed. She was writing fast on a notebook but suddenly she frowned, reviewed what she had written, made a displeased face and stripped the page. She crumpled the paper and threw it to the corner, where he could count at least two dozens more. She put the notebook aside, stood and walked to the desk. He noticed it was full of manuscripts and paying more attention he could tell they were poems. The woman who smelled like lavender wrote poetry.

Somehow it touched him and brought him a memory from long ago. It was reminiscence more than a memory, maybe from his previous life. She reminded him of something, or someone, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to find what. It had been so much time since the last time he experienced such a similar emotion, a human emotion, that he made a mistake. The woman absent-mindedly looked up and saw him.

He cursed, upset with himself for being so unaware. That was nothing typical of a hunter with years of experience, a creature with extremely developed senses. He opened the window and jumped into the room. The woman was so impressed she couldn’t even scream. She didn’t try to run or ask for help, so he supposed she lived alone.

He took his time to examine her. If it would had been a horror tale she would have been a fearful lady with long, silky hair, wearing a white, long, flounced nightgown and brushing her hair in front of a dresser. He would approach from behind, not cheated on the mirror which he couldn’t reflect on. He would give himself one moment to admire her beauty, another one to be spry about the loss of a beautiful being and nothing else. She would do nothing to avoid the tragic ending, paralyzed by terror.

But tales were far apart from reality. The woman in front of him has no resemblance to the ideal protagonist of those stories. She had short, blonde hair, too short for a young lady, and light blue eyes wide open in surprise. He was wearing no flounced nightgown or dress but an Asian-style long-sleeved shirt that ended in the middle of her thighs, and nothing else.

He wandered what he was doing while she, terrified, inadvertently plopped on the bed as she tried to pull back and drifted apart from the unknown that had burst into her room. He never stopped to gaze at his victims; he just took them off guard and did what he had to do. It was something he needed but it provided him no pleasure or remorse. But she… she had something different. He moved closer with a slow pace as he knew she has no chance to escape. The closer he was the stronger the lavender scent grew, hiding the sour smell of the blood. He was awed, he had never experienced such thing since he became the creature he was now.

“Don’t do anything, please, I have nothing, don’t hurt me, please…”

He heard her begging for her life with a weak voice. He leaned over the bed with white sheets and she shrank even more. But he had no intention to harm her. Not _yet._

“Why poetry?” he asked with a sharp, deep voice, diving into her blue eyes. She was trapped in his gaze.

“Because it turns a heartless world into a beautiful one” she answered in a whisper.

“You can’t manipulate reality to your liking just with words.”

“I…”

She kept quiet because he placed a finger on her lips. Then he moved it to her cheek, under her ear, gently took her neck and get closer to her face so he could smell that scent which attract and repelled him at the same time. She didn’t resist, it seemed she wasn’t afraid anymore or maybe she was so paralyzed by fear she couldn’t react.

“Why lavender?” he whispered in her ear, making her tremble.

“What?”

Then she wasn’t conscious of it. Those were his favorite fragrances, the ones that didn’t come from essences, oils, perfumes or soaps, or from the bodies’ outpour. Throughout his long existence he had find thousands but no one like hers. Any of them could mask blood’s bitterness.

He knew he had to finish her off as soon as possible.

He softly placed his lips on her throat in a more delicate way than how he used to do it. He was totally intoxicated, fascinated. That scent was addictive like a drug and if he could he would let her live, keeping her to himself only to smell that scent every night. But he knew it was not possible, not only because it was forbidden but because if he let himself being bewitched by that woman he would end up destroying himself. He was a monster, a creature from the shadows; he couldn’t be charmed as she did with reality through her poetry.

She didn’t scream, didn’t groan, didn’t say anything, didn’t move a single muscle. She stayed there, unmoving like a marble statue on the bed with white sheets. As his sharp teeth ripped her skin, the deep smell of blood made their way while the liquid went from her veins to his mouth, astonishingly fast. There was no trace of the lavender anymore.

When he finished it was like he never had been there. He took her life drop by drop till her blue eyes faded away and she died in silence, with her hands grasping his chest and the muse of some verses fluttering in her mind.

Since that day he tirelessly searches for that lavender balm that just once made him believe he was more human and less diabolic, but he doesn’t find it. Nor he will find it because he stopped being human long ago. And only they in their silly effort try to hide into their hopes. He had just left the blood that kept him in place one more night.


End file.
